


Just Getting Started

by MrsBarnes



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex sucks at showering, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Bickering, Bottom Alexander Hamilton, Closet Sex, Fluff and Angst, Frat Boy Jefferson, Insecurity, M/M, Oblivious Alexander Hamilton, School Bicycle Jefferson, Smut, Thomas Jefferson Being an Asshole, Unreliable Narrator, but not really, fuck buddies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:55:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25345801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsBarnes/pseuds/MrsBarnes
Summary: Alex thinks they're fuck buddies. Thomas thinks otherwise.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Comments: 26
Kudos: 278





	Just Getting Started

Alex wakes up in the arms of Thomas Jefferson for the tenth time in just as many weeks. “Damn it,” he grumps into Jefferson’s bicep. “Get off.”

“No,” Jefferson returns sounding wide awake.

Moving hurts in the way of all bad nights, from his aching back to the persistent throb of too much alcohol behind his eyes. Alex inches a couple centimeters across the mattress before giving up. “I have class,” he says upon seeing the clock.

“We both have class. We’re also still drunk.”

Hungover, more like, but Alex refuses to argue with the logic that keeps their fucked-up relationship from getting any worse. “Right,” he agrees blindly, sinking into Jefferson’s warm embrace. The arm around his stomach tightens hard enough to bruise. Their fingers are laced, why did Alex not notice that before? He shuts his eyes against the clock and the sun and the reality of who’s spooning him. “Yeah, still drunk. We’re probably also still asleep and not hungry and able to pass all our classes without doing any work or attending lecture.”

“I hate you,” Jefferson says, as if to reiterate the illusion they constructed to ignore why they keep sleeping together.

“Hate you too,” Alex lies. Uncomfortable now, he continues “I’m not missing class for you.”

Jefferson groans like a spoiled child denied his favorite toy and does something that throws his sweaty curls against Alex’s neck. Despite their long, disgusting night, Jefferson’s hair somehow smells like warm summer days on the island, spiced coconut mixed with briny ocean breeze. He’s an unfair human being, is what he is, and Alex refuses to succumb to the walking temptation of Jefferson’s ridiculous good looks an eleventh time. He resumes his struggle upright despite the arm halfheartedly trying to pin him pliant, until their joined fingers land awkwardly across Alex’s hip and Alex more or less feels accomplished in his quest to sit up like an adult. The temptation looks less handsome in the unforgiving morning light, puffy eyes sitting deep in clammy skin gone paler than the copper shine Alex usually envies. Only the deep brown of his irises reaps some reward from the sunshine, catching flakes of gold and clear warm sand with every blink. “Stop moving,” Jefferson grumbles.

“Give me one good reason, asshole.”

“I’m going to throw up.” His mouth presses into Alex’s bare hip as if to punctuate the point, and Alex grudgingly cedes the argument with his own grumble.

Sitting upright in the rumpled evidence of a poor night, Alex feels yet another terrible decision come sliding out of him in slow drops that pool wetly beneath his sore ass, and he whacks the nearest shoulder weakly in reprimand. “Why the fuck am I leaking?”

Face now mashed into Alex’s leg, Jefferson grunts, “We ran out of condoms.”

They always use condoms, a fact which does not in any way prove the regularity of this monumentally stupid life choice. That Alex keeps a full box of condoms in his dorm is irrelevant, considering they’re in Jefferson’s dorm this time, meaning it was Jefferson’s responsibility to limit the transfer of bodily fluids. Alex vaguely recalls going more than once, just like he also somewhat remembers fumbling for the empty box of condoms, possibly cursing in a couple languages, and Jefferson chuckling something about not getting pregnant. His stomach’s still flat, so this isn’t the usual nightmare of waking up bloated with triplets even though he’s a gay man who can’t do that. Which means all those terrible choices really happened, up to and including letting Jefferson come inside him.

At least he didn’t crap the bed in the middle of the night.

“Class,” he concludes blearily, unable to deal with this nightmare anymore. “Worry later. Pants?”

Jefferson snorts into his hip. “Pants by door, Tarzan. Thomas sleep more.”

Alex resumes his struggle to leave the bed. “You’re not borrowing my notes,” he promises with full conviction, in part because Jefferson laughed at Alex’s handwriting when he last grudgingly offered to assist the asshole. That Jefferson has beautiful handwriting, perfectly straight without guiding lines and loopy like calligraphy, only makes Alex hate the man more.

He pries Jefferson’s fingers off his hip one by one and wobbles fully upright on legs that feel weak from a long night spent bent by the knee at unforgiving angles.

“Don’t want your godawful notes,” Jefferson replies, muffled as he rolls to lay face down on the bed. He has fresh scratches on his back that overlap the ones Alex left last week. Contrary to logic, they do not in any way detract from the overall look of Jefferson, who has the kind of back seen on models in billboard advertisements. Alex feels an unfortunately familiar urge to trace his fingers from the wings of muscle flaring across each shoulder blade to the deep vee of Jefferson’s hips. Pinching one of the scratches also works, since he clearly groped Jefferson plenty last night. “Ouch, asshole,” Jefferson barks into the pillow, otherwise unresponsive. A corpse has more reaction to personal injury.

“Oh yeah, that obviously hurt so much,” Alex says sarcastically. He pinches again, a little harder, until Jefferson finally flinches. “I’ll see you in class.”

“You assume I actually mean to go.”

Alex snorts in full knowledge that Jefferson, for all his big talk, refuses to let Alex beat him at anything. He’ll show up to class, if only to smirk smugly as Alex winces into a chair. “I’m borrowing your toothbrush,” is all Alex says.

Jefferson grunts an acknowledgment and visibly drops back into dreams. It’s nothing overt, or at least it shouldn’t be, but weeks of waking up bundled in Jefferson’s arms has familiarized Alex with the bastard’s habits. He prefers sleeping face down for whatever inane reason Jefferson does things, with his arms stuffed under the pillows and one leg drawn up into the cool spot. The way he rotates his shoulders and hips pushes the blanket down enough that Alex catches a glimpse of Jefferson’s unfortunately beautiful ass. He sighs when nodding off, releasing all the tension built up in his powerful shoulders and the generous dip of his back. Like this, Alex could probably crawl over Jefferson and use him as a pillow with the larger man none the wiser. He’s pliant in bed like he never is elsewhere, forcing Alex to grudgingly admit that he enjoys this side of Jefferson more than he should.

Maybe that’s why he keeps coming back.

Furious at himself for being so damn weak, Alex creaks down to snatch his clothes off the floor and ventures into the attached bathroom. He rinses off in Jefferson’s shower and uses Jefferson’s toothbrush before wandering out into the main hallway. Naturally, James Madison is also exiting his room across the hall, and Alex watches in defeat as the other man’s eyebrows go up. “Again?” he asks, sounding amused.

“Go fuck yourself,” Alex grumbles.

“I prefer leaving that honor to my girlfriend, thank you,” Madison responds drolly. “Tom coming to class?”

Huffing, Alex begins the long trudge through enemy territory. “When does he skip? Asshole will steal another hour of sleep and make it on time anyway.” They go downstairs together, whereupon several heads pop up and leer to see Alex walking around freely. Alex decides he hates them all. “Laugh it up, boys, I’m the one who got laid last night.”

“Everyone laid after such _fête amusante, ami_ ,” Lafayette, the only person Alex actively likes from this fraternity, says, his voice purring like a cat who just realized someone left the bird cage open. “We see you tonight, yes?”

“No.” He and Jefferson usually hold off a few days to really ruminate on their terrible life choices.

“We plan order pizza,” Laf offers with an egregious eyebrow wiggle.

The whole living room freezes to watch Alex wrestle with his ultimate weakness. Jefferson may be one thing, but pizza’s sacrosanct, and unfortunately expensive for a poor immigrant attending this prestigious university only on scholarship. He scowls at Laf hatefully and shoulders his bag.

The Frenchman beams in response. “I knew you see my way, _mon ami._ Tonight!”

“Tonight,” Alex grudgingly concedes.

He flees before they con him into anything else. The sun hits his eyes like retribution from god, and Alex stumbles down the excessively tall stairway to the sidewalk, refusing to spare the fraternity behind him a glance. He’s made this walk enough in the past that he does so now with gaze shielded by a hastily raised hand. Apparently, Alex also fails at showering, because he feels something unfortunately familiar leak with every step. The hangover keeps him from moving any faster, so Alex resigns himself to making Jefferson replace his pants.

It takes half an hour to reach his dorm, another twenty washing off again, and then a little over twenty-five to trundle into the classroom, where he’s unsurprised to see Jefferson dozing beside a disgruntled Madison.

“Told you,” Alex sneers as he limps up the stairs.

Madison returns the look and replies, “Tom saved you a seat.”

“Did not,” Jefferson grunts without opening his eyes or bothering to move his bag off the empty chair on his other side. Alex glances between the chair and his usual spot up several more rows of unfortunately steep stairs. The clock on the far wall ticks the seconds away as he debates between two bad choices. Part of him wants to give Jefferson the finger like usual, because the man desperately needs his oversized ego chopped in half. Then his back twinges and his hips start aching because said ego-driven asshole never learned the meaning of self-restraint. Alex is throwing Jefferson’s bag to the floor before he consciously decides to do so. “Find your own seat, Hamilton.”

“I’d rather let you take responsibility for my inability to walk properly.”

One deep brown eye pokes open. “Gladly, when you’re not abusing my possessions. That bag costs more than your monthly rent.” 

Alex is appropriately disgusted. “Who pays that much for a fucking book bag?”

“Someone who plans to own the book bag for more than five seconds.” The one open eye drifts down to glare at the ragged, holey creature Alex picked up at the thrift store for two dollars. The bag’s predecessor, an equally ragged orange monstrosity, tore apart last month under the weight of a single text book and a couple pens. In the quad where everyone and their visiting mother could see. Jefferson rode that hilarity for a whole week.

Now that Alex’s embarrassment has worn off, Jefferson has resumed his usual disdain at Alex’s terminal poverty.

By contrast, Alex cannot forget Jefferson’s wealth for even a moment. The man just oozes money, from the thick aviator sunglasses perched on his aristocratic nose to the heavy leather jacket he favors in the winter. The smooth caramel of his skin contrasts pleasantly with the dark corkscrew curls spilling out from under his wool beanie. He didn’t bother shaving the stubble off his unfortunately handsome face this morning, forcing Alex to grudgingly remember what that face felt like rubbing between his thighs. He’s not the only one either. As more exhausted students stumble into their Monday morning class gripping coffee cups like lifelines, Alex sees several eyes, mostly the heavily made up feminine variety, darting up to place Jefferson in the cavernous room. A couple pair their glances with blushes and shy smiles that Alex hates on principle, because he knows Jefferson’s reputation well enough to recognize former flames.

Jealousy never looks good on anyone, Alex reminds himself sternly. And it’s Jefferson for god’s sake. Feeling jealous over the school bicycle is just pathetic.

Alex slams his bag on the table to pull out his notebook. The resultant bang makes them both flinch. “I like my bag,” Alex insists stubbornly. “It works just as well as your ridiculously expensive version, with the added bonus of letting me pay my rent one more month.”

“For you or the cockroaches?”

The professor chooses that moment to walk in, and Alex drops his voice to a barely audible murmur. “Let me ask the cockroach next to me.” Judging by that arrogant smirk, Jefferson heard him just fine.

They enjoy a brief cessation of verbal violence while the professor drones on below. Alex takes dutiful notes like always, his pen flying frantically as he struggles to keep up with the endless flow of words, while Jefferson dozes next to him in casual indifference. Neither of them feel perturbed when the professor announces a pop quiz. Much to Alex’s consternation, Jefferson finishes a couple minutes faster, if only because he’s an unfair, English as a first language asshole. That he’s also waiting outside the room when Alex finishes does not make Alex happy. They both pretend Jefferson’s waiting for Madison instead.

“Jemmy almost done?” Jefferson inquires lazily.

“Hardly,” Alex replies. He looks at the floor and starts counting the tiles in shame for lingering when he should righteously limp across the quad instead. Conversation’s for people, and Jefferson stopped qualifying a long time ago.

Jefferson clicks his tongue like he’s aware of the disparaging turn Alex’s thoughts just took. “No idea why he takes so long. The quizzes are easy.” A haggard woman just exiting class shoots Jefferson a nasty glare. Not that Alex can say anything to soothe her because the quizzes _are_ laughably easy, but he appreciates her tenacity in recognizing that Jefferson’s the next coming of the anti-Christ. Alex watches his momentary ally disappear around the corner before turning to meet the monster head on. He’s unsurprised to find Jefferson eyeballing him over those ridiculous aviators. “Look at you, Hamilton. Watching ass like a letch.”

“Rich coming from you,” Alex snaps. Jefferson is the school bicycle who watches ass all the time, and Alex prefers men. “Let me guess, she didn’t moan loud enough for you?”

“Or shave her jungle gym,” Jefferson agrees.

Alex doesn’t shave his jungle gym either. Jefferson’s not worth the effort. “Like that stops you.”

“Only on Thursdays.”

“You’re a pig,” Alex sighs. He wants to feel angry or upset by that revelation, only it’s not a very revolutionary thing to notice. Jefferson has always been a pig. An intelligent, wealthy, unfairly attractive pig. That Alex regularly porks. His ass, still loose from last night, throbs insistently at the reminder, and Alex spends several seconds glaring up at Jefferson’s amused face before caving to the inevitable. “There’s an unused closet down the hall.”

Jefferson’s eyebrow snaps up. “Keeping condoms in your ugly bag now, are you?”

Alex, in fact, does not. He also doesn’t have class for another two hours. “I’m already tainted,” he grumbles. “Hurry up.”

Smirking, Jefferson follows Alex into the closet and waits until the door shuts before slamming Alex against the wall hard enough to rattle the shelves of cleaning supplies opposite. His mouth tastes like mint. Alex breaks the kiss to turn around and drop his pants, and Jefferson barely slides in before he’s forcibly digging his teeth into Alex’s neck, hard and fierce like his thrusting hips. The slick sound of them echoing in the small room ends things embarrassingly fast. After, they sink to the floor in a panting heap.

“Christ,” Alex grunts, unwilling to admit how much he enjoyed that even as he grinds down on Jefferson’s thick cock. Experience tells Alex that, if he keeps squeezing and wiggling, Jefferson will rise to the challenge in a handful of minutes.

The teeth sleepily gnawing at his neck tighten. “Stop that.”

“What, too old to get it up twice?”

Jefferson jerks forward, grinding against Alex’s prostate like a reprimand and making Alex whimper. “Unlike some people, I actually have shit to do today.”

Knowing better yet unable to help himself, Alex sneers “Is her name Martha?”

If Jefferson is the school bicycle, Martha is the school vault, all but impenetrable to Jefferson’s continuing advances. Everyone knows the prick likes her. Then again, she’s literally impossible to dislike, gorgeous and smart and funny, with the kind of smile that lights up the room not because it’s perfect, but because she genuinely enjoys the company of everyone she meets. She also, much to Jefferson’s chagrin, likes women.

Alex is unsurprised when Jefferson grabs his hips and slams inside hard enough to trade pleasure for pain. “Among other things,” Jefferson pronounces darkly, hips beginning the dirty grind Alex pretends to hate.

They leave the closet however long later to find Madison waiting impatiently across the hallway checking his phone.

Jefferson claps his frat mate on the shoulder companionably. “Ready?”

In answer, Madison dubiously eyes the sweat beading on each of their foreheads and Alex’s worsened limp as they move toward the only exit. “Must you, Tom?” The asshole merely flicks his sunglasses onto his face and pushes outside without deigning to answer, leaving Alex alone in the aftermath of Madison’s unimpressed stare.

“What?” Alex acknowledges mulishly. “I have no control here.”

Madison snorts.

“I don’t! He’s—” Gesturing at Jefferson’s everything already disappearing down the building steps speaks for itself. Broad backed bastard.

“Who suggested the closet?” is what Madison returns with which, well.

“Fine, fuck, you win, I have a small margin of control, in that he sometimes agrees when I ask, not that it means much. What man on the planet says no to sex?” he growls, beginning to stomp toward his dorm in the wake of the path Jefferson cut through the crowd.

Madison follows since he basically copied Jefferson’s timetable when signing up for classes. Alex highly doubts either of them will work anywhere without the other on payroll, despite Madison being the milder, sicker, more congenial version of an absolute monster. Their friendship defies logic. “One who’s in love,” Madison answers calmly, having weathered these choppy waters before. “He’s cut down in the last few months.”

“Cut down,” Alex snorts before the words actually register. “Wait, are you talking about Martha? Seriously?”

The look of absolute pity catches Alex off guard. “Go shower, Hamilton.”

It makes sense, he realizes as he blindly moves to obey. Jefferson locked onto Martha during orientation and never let go. She seems immune to his worst qualities, bringing out the admittedly impressive scope of his intelligence and charm and good Southern manners. Hell, if not for her chastity routine and insistence that she will eventually fall in love with a woman, even Alex would push them together. They fit, the way he and Jefferson never fit, like comparing a pair of matching shoes to a holey sock. Because socks and shoes can be worn on the same foot at the same time, Alex weirdly thought he and Jefferson worked well enough to keep on keeping on until they grew bored of each other. Somehow, it never occurred to him that Jefferson would leave first.

Walking back to his dorm dripping for the second time in a single day, realizing that he is nothing more than a brief stop-over on a much longer journey, Alex feels painfully small in his skin.

He washes the lingering sex away while feeling embarrassingly empty in more than just the obvious way, although that proves more metaphor than he can handle. A little rummaging through unused drawers produces the rubber plug he bought ages ago and inserted only twice. It’s not much, but it soothes enough of the gaping loneliness that Alex finishes the day relatively undisturbed.

Of course, as if in divine retribution for all his terrible life choices of late, Lafayette finds him crossing the quad after his last class. “ _Mon ami!”_

“Oh god,” Alex groans as a brutally strong arm grabs his unprotected shoulders.

“Where you going, we made plans for the pizza!” Lafayette croons, already steering Alex in the complete opposite direction of Alex’s dorm.

Since struggle has proven futile in the past, Alex resigns himself to an uncomfortable night spent in his worst enemy’s company with a large plug holding his ass open like an invitation. “I have some things to do before coming over, Laf,” he protests, by which he means removing the embarrassment before Jefferson inevitably finds out. The Frenchman merely scoffs. “I’m serious!”

“Bah, is weekend now, homework can wait.”

“It’s Monday!”

“Yes, is Monday, and no class tomorrow for us. So, is practically weekend again.”

Alex hangs his head at the ridiculous logic of such a statement, yet nevertheless concedes that another hangover will not affect his class schedule in any way, save shrinking the amount of time available to finish his criminally easy homework. Hell, even molasses rolling uphill in winter can write these papers in a couple hours.

“Fine,” he agrees grudgingly, and lets Lafayette lead him into the only frat house pounding with inadvisably loud music and the vague smell of marijuana on a Monday night. The promised pizza sits steaming on the overloaded coffee table, pepperoni and Hawaiian and plain good-for-nothing cheese. Alex scowls and throws his bag against the couch. “Does no one have decent taste in this damn hot box?”

“Over here, Hamilton.” When Alex glances up, he finds Jefferson skulking with some pizza in the lone armchair. Quick investigation produces olives and jalapenos, the only aspect of life they regularly agree on.

With no other options readily available, Alex sits on the arm of the chair and snags a slice. “Strike out with Martha again?”

“Shopping,” Jefferson explains in the succinct way that means he’d rather not talk about it.

Too bad, because Alex is feeling uncharitable. “Aw, did she use you as her bag boy again? You know that’s what women do when they friendzone an overzealous horndog.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes and waves across the room at Madison who, in typical lackey fashion, tosses over a cold bottle of dark beer on cue. For all his Southern manners and aristocratic upbringing, Jefferson is still a college kid at heart, and Alex snorts when the distinguished gentleman pops the cap with his teeth. “Now what?” Jefferson asks, peeved.

“Gimme some.” Alex steals the beer and swallows a few gulps without permission. “Wow, bitter.”

“Spoilt child,” Jefferson growls, snatching the beer back. He undercuts his argument by draining the whole bottle before Alex can steal another round.

“Pot.”

“Derelict.”

“Republican.”

“Proudly so, ignorant pissant.”

“Lazy—” Someone bumps into Alex’s back and sends him sliding unceremoniously into Jefferson’s lap. Being people of priorities, both of them grab for the wobbling pizza. “Asshole!” Alex barks at whoever almost cost him dinner. That he also yells into Jefferson’s unprepared ear loud enough to make the Southerner wince only adds to the powerful rush of endorphins Alex gets upon rocking the forgotten plug against Jefferson’s thigh.

All the blood drains from his face.

Shit.

Jefferson shoots him an irritated glance that quickly catalogues Alex’s terror and readjusts into a parody of concern. “You alright, Hamilton?”

“Your goddamn granite muscles hurt,” Alex rebuts through numb lips.

In hindsight, complimenting Jefferson on his athleticism was not the way to reduce suspicion. The perceptive bastard shifts his thigh and adopts a strange expression when Alex whimpers, like the light bulb blinked on yet illuminated something he’s unsure how to handle. Without much fanfare he scoops Alex up and starts walking upstairs.

“Hey, what about the fucking pizza!”

“Jemmy, save our pie in the fridge,” Jefferson shouts into the depths of the house. An affirmative response echoes from the kitchen and is ignored by everyone staring at them like they’re sideshow entertainment.

To be fair, Alex is a disturbing amount of feet off the ground.

He hisses and grabs a fistful of Jefferson’s curls for a mean shake that only swerves them both into the wall. The asshole still smells like a summer beach. “Put me down.”

“Patience, Hamilton.”

“Patience my ass, you’re carrying me like a princess. I can fucking walk!”

Jefferson leans down the couple inches necessary to whisper, silken and soft, “With that little tease in your hole?” Alex flushes up so hard astronauts are probably scratching their heads over the strange infrared reading they just received. “Thought so,” Jefferson says smugly. He resumes walking to his room while Alex tries to fabricate some semblance of a response that won’t be easily, stupidly, dashed to pieces the moment Jefferson grabs for his prize. It’s not like Alex has time to hide the plug.

Goddamned Lafayette and his overbearing inability to take no for an answer.

The door slams under force from Jefferson’s kicked heel and, now that they have relative privacy, Alex squirms for freedom uncaring who sees the way he bites his lip at the sudden prostate stimulation. Rather than obey like normal people, Jefferson maintains his quiet domination by throwing Alex onto the bed and crawling up the sheets like a hungry jungle cat. It’s unfairly sexy from someone so annoying.

“Who said we’re having sex?” Alex snaps. The overbearing asshole sets about undoing Alex’s pants instead of answering. “Hey, jerkwad, this is me saying no.”

“You never say no,” Jefferson states dryly which, fair.

Alex dares anyone to deny this physically perfect specimen of the human race, despite his terrible personality and even worse sense of gentlemanly decorum. Most guys work their partners up with a little foreplay, some kissing or stroking, maybe even a blowjob. Not Jefferson, who barely takes the time to de-robe their lower halves. “At least remove your shirt,” Alex mutters rebelliously, because he likes Jefferson shirtless more than any other Jefferson in the available roster.

Used to these demands, Jefferson complies efficiently, eyes already locked on the hint of black between Alex’s wet cheeks. “How long.”

“What does that matter?”

“Tell me how fucking long that’s been inside you, Hamilton,” Jefferson mutters. He unbuckles his pants so his cock, gorgeously hard and dripping, springs free.

Alex swallows a sudden influx of saliva. “Not telling.”

The Southern gentleman snarls like a wild animal and throws Alex’s legs wide so he can yank the plug out as unceremoniously as he disposed of Alex’s pants. The wet sound ignites another blush reflected in the heat building behind Jefferson’s eyes, and they’ve never actually done this totally sober before, excluding their closet tryst when, arguably, they were still pretty hungover from the previous night. Seeing the fading sunlight glowing golden off Jefferson’s shoulders makes this whole interaction seem otherworldly and unreal, like something happening to someone else, viewed through a kaleidoscope of contradictory emotions Alex barely understands.

What he does understand is how easy Jefferson slides inside, as easy as the last five times because they do this too regularly, his body too used to the stretch and pull.

He knows Jefferson likes the nails Alex rakes down his back, knows that Jefferson likes to have his hair pulled while he bites at Alex’s neck, likes lips kissing his ears so he can hear whenever Alex whimpers at a particularly well-aimed thrust. He knows the feel of their skin sliding together and Jefferson’s faint ocean scent giving way to sweat and sex and exertion, muscles rolling and breath gone ragged. He knows that when he asks, gasping, if it’s good, Jefferson will wrap him up in strong arms and groan, hips deepening their rhythm just the way Alex likes best, because it keeps Jefferson inside him where he needs the reassurance of bodies as close as any two people can be.

He knows when he comes, he’ll clutch Jefferson close and cry out a name he never speaks anywhere but here, because then everyone would know how Jefferson bites down around an answering sound, hips stuttering as he spills hot inside.

Alex knows, and he still hugs Jefferson when the larger man collapses in the purpling darkness where no one, absolutely no one else can see what they’ve become.

Oxygen deprivation ruins the moment.

“Get off,” he mutters, squirming.

Jefferson makes a low noise of protest and flaps a hand. “Comfortable.”

“Glad one of us is,” Alex bickers. He rocks around until Jefferson slips out on a grotesque squelch similar in many ways to the effects used in movies during alien births or horrifying body part removal. Much as when Lafayette tricks him into watching one of those insults to cinema, Alex finds a quick retreat and slumps a few inches shy of entirely free. “God, it’s like orgasm kills you.”

“Little death,” Jefferson quips into the pillow. Face down, his preferred position.

Alex pushes a hand into Jefferson’s sweaty hair and shuffles around until ocean waves crash against a remembered shore in soothing staccato. “I hate that you smell so good.”

“Benefits of regular bathing.”

“I bathe, asshole. Three times today, because someone can’t control himself.” He still sticks his nose in Jefferson’s hair because, fuck it, Jefferson will remain face down and unresponsive for a few minutes more.

No one is more surprised when he wakes sometime around three in the morning all but burrito’d in Jefferson’s unfairly long arms, nose still in briny curls and hands latched like a baby koala around broad shoulders. Alex lets loose a low, dying whale noise at the injustice. He missed pizza for this. “Stop squirming,” Jefferson yawns into his collarbone. His breath smells like stale tomato sauce and sleep. “I’ve had enough sex today.”

“It’s tomorrow,” Alex argues for argument’s sake, because they wouldn’t be them without it.

Jefferson hums a wry acknowledgment. “Dick’s sore. I’ll do you when the sun comes up.”

“Who says I’ll still be here, asshole.”

Groaning like he very much wants to resume sleeping, Jefferson nevertheless props up on an elbow to eyeball Alex from his superior vantage point. Alex would mirror the gesture, only he’ll still be looking up at Jefferson from his inferior height advantage, so he may as well conserve the energy. “Do you truly wish to walk across campus in the middle of the freezing night just to spite me?”

Caught, Alex stares down at the warm comforter plied generously over the human heater he pretends to hate. “Don’t tempt me.”

Jefferson flops onto his back with a sigh and pushes a hand through his stupid, lush, perfect-smelling hair, because he knows how unfairly attractive he is with his washboard abdomen and artfully thick stubble and, Jesus, how has Alex never noticed those well-defined pectorals before? “I’m not doing anything except sleeping,” Jefferson says shortly. “Do as you will, it’s what you’re good at.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The wry glance speaks for itself, yet Jefferson still explains, “Uh, how about leaving whenever you want, propositioning me whenever you want, insulting me at your leisure, suggesting I sleep with other people despite knowing I haven’t the time between going to class and fucking you.” He even counts on his long caramel fingers just to hammer the point home the way he hammered Alex’s ass a few hours earlier. It’s a surprisingly effective assault.

Yet Alex never allows himself to secede victory after suffering a well-aimed volley and rallies his own mental facilities to the challenge. “Please, I barely see you. We only share the one class. And, except for yesterday, we always fuck after hours! Plenty of time for you to slut around.”

“This may surprise you, but I have responsibilities beyond our school requirements,” Jefferson frowns.

“Like what?”

“I work for a local political office as well as write opinion columns for the paper.”

The knowledge falls like a brick between them, heavy and final, reminding Alex that he hardly knows Jefferson outside these trysts, having not cared before this very moment. His fingers begin picking at the blanket, a nervous habit he thought broken after he shredded an entire sweater while studying for a stressful project in middle school. “I, uh, what newspaper? The college one?”

“Wall Street Journal.”

Alex licks his lips and looks down. “Oh.” Shame curdles low in his belly at the thought of Jefferson going places and doing things and meeting people where Alex can’t follow. Of course, Jefferson is intelligent, charming, wealthy. He works hard and competently at whatever catches his interest, talks circles around the armchair academics in their class, makes quick work of assignments. It’s not a surprise to hear he’s successful. It does surprise Alex to realize he never guessed that Jefferson would be. He suddenly feels behind. Not in the usual sense of watching Jefferson beat him the handful of times that has happened, but in the way of someone realizing their friends left without them, car speeding off into the distance while Alex waits abandoned on the sidewalk. Alone. Lonely.

Why the hell does he feel so goddamned lonely? He ducks under the covers for warmth, rolls his back to Jefferson, and decides he’ll leave in the morning.

“God, now you’re sulking,” Jefferson sighs. His large body curls around Alex, arms crossing loosely over his waist. Contrary to the basic premise of cuddling, Alex does not feel comforted. “What, upset I advanced beyond your current capabilities?”

“Fuck you.”

“Please, we both know you dislike that,” Jefferson responds drily. They drunkenly tried switching during their second tryst, only for Jefferson to end the encounter laughing, ticklish and amused, while Alex tossed the condom demanding they do things the usual way. “Not that I mind. Come on, Hamilton, stop pouting. Tell me, is it jealousy?”

“No,” Alex snaps. “I have no interest in writing for a conservative paper.”

“Well, it can’t be the reduced possibility of sexually transmitted diseases,” Jefferson muses. He tightens his arms and rocks a little bit, which Alex acknowledges in the privacy of his own mind is slightly more comforting than being held, but only slightly. Jefferson feels so warm, and his hair smells so good when he lays his head against Alex’s like an asshole, sweaty curls all over the place. Alex doesn’t like it. Not even a little.

Apropos of nothing, Jefferson suddenly says, “I hate strawberries.” Alex turns just enough to give him a dubious, what the hell expression. “I do. Can’t stand the texture. Also wanted to be a writer growing up. Turns out I have little talent in terms of fiction, although I do well enough on the political columns. Prefer men over women. Hate playing the piano despite a passing recommendation from my tutor.” His nose rubs behind Alex’s ear. “I only order pizza with jalapenos and olives because I know you like it.”

Alex swallows hard. “Why are you telling me this crap?”

“Wonder why,” Jefferson grunts, not even bothering to sound sarcastic. Large hands find purchase on the hollows of Alex’s hip bones and settle in for the long haul, squeezing so Alex can’t forget he’s there, and Alex swallows again because he feels comforted down to his marrow after a few random phrases from a maniac who may or may not be lying to ensure he gets laid in the morning. Although how he knew what to say Alex refuses to consider beyond discarding the information as useless. He has a raging suspicion that Jefferson may outclass him in the personal interaction department that he cannot in good conscious confirm.

Instead he touches the strong forearms crossed around his middle, following a prominent vein over the wrist until their fingers inadvertently overlap. He laces them before he loses his nerve.

Jefferson breathes out against the back of his neck and mumbles, “Don’t leave in the morning.”

“It is morning, dumbass,” Alex whispers.

“We can do homework together,” Jefferson says around a cracking yawn. “Finish the pizza. Drink. I’ll even blow you.”

Alex’s dick, being a small head with equally small ambitions, twitches. “What a ringing endorsement.” He squirms until his ass settles in the cradle of Jefferson’s hips where that lovely head, unfortunately larger than his own, has equally small ambitions principally centered on the wet pucker seeking attention. Jefferson makes a low, filthy noise and grinds forward.

“I said morning,” Jefferson argues halfheartedly.

“Again, it’s already morning.”

“Still sore,” Jefferson grunts, but he shoves Alex’s legs open with a single thigh and seeks home. It’s a lazy effort, all slick grinding and sloppy kisses trailing in aimless circles across Alex’s skin.

Alex, still tender and raw, whimpers, “Is it good?” like always.

Jefferson moans throatily and crushes Alex against his solid chest. “Fantastic,” he pants, heavy cock nodding agreement against Alex’s sweet spot, and Alex cries out maybe a little too loudly for the late hour, as Jefferson feels the need to lean over and seal their mouths together, swallowing the sound. His breath tastes disgusting.

Alex kisses back anyway.

He comes like that, tongues tangled together and hands squeezing, while Jefferson jerks deep inside. Their mouths sound almost as filthy as the space between their legs.

“Five times,” Jefferson mutters into Alex’s mouth. Alex bites him. “Fuck, that hurt!”

“Say that to my neck.” Alex shoves his tongue down Jefferson’s throat before Jefferson has the crazy idea to start an argument their mouths should really not participate in while otherwise occupied. He likes this, Alex realizes, eyes popping open. Jefferson looks like a goddamned fantasy made manifest, beautiful in the scant moonlight from the window, long and lean and gorgeous, so intelligent and engaging, patient enough to put up with Alex when almost no one else will. Alex could do much worse than a brilliantly smart man who wants him. He twines their legs together, feeling the toned muscle and thick hair, the sticky patch where semen dripped down to make a nuisance of itself upon drying, and Alex sucks on Jefferson’s tongue until they run out of air. “Come back,” Alex mumbles when Jefferson pulls away.

The bastard cranes his neck out of range. “Remember my plea for sleep, darlin’?”

“Fucking useless biological function,” Alex rants, remembering the good old days when he ran on coffee and dogged determination, back before a giant Southern octopus decided to commandeer him as a body pillow. He used to be so productive.

“Not a word about the pet name. Noted.” Appalled that Jefferson dared point that out, Alex buts his head into the man’s stupidly solid collarbones until Jefferson all but retreats, curling so his messy head fits between Alex’s shoulder blades. “No need for domestic abuse already,” he protests, although he sounds suspiciously delighted for someone complaining. Alex elbows him for good measure. “Forget the morning sex then. Off the table.”

“Already eaten, because it’s _already morning_.”

“Please sleep?” Jefferson asks hopefully, like a little kid wanting a cookie before bedtime.

It’s ridiculously cute behavior from a grown ass man. Alex wants to punish him for the presumption, but it’s late, and he’s tired, and there’s a pleasant buzz beneath his skin from the excellent orgasm that Jefferson probably deserves credit for, so he grumbles, “Fine,” and pretends it’s not coming from a place of dubious affection.

Jefferson kisses him between the shoulder blades anyway and murmurs, “Good night, darlin’.”

Feeling charitable, Alex says, “Night, Thomas.”

Jefferson twitches all over. “Oh, now that’s just dirty pool.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Sleep, asshole.” He keeps their fingers laced while Jefferson grumbles about nagging girlfriends, briefly debating the benefits of arguing their roles here, only he dallies a little too long and feels Jefferson go soft behind him. How a man of Jefferson’s intelligence finds so much time to sleep, Alex has no idea. Nor does he consider how confidently he accepts the assumption that Jefferson is asleep without visual evidence. Alex just knows, the same way he knows that the sun will rise and they will probably have sex again, before eating leftover pizza like Jefferson promised. They may even shower together, if Alex continues this charity streak and wants to learn the secret to the lovely corkscrew curls painting ocean waves across his shoulders. His eyelids droop even as his brain works, worrying about finishing homework and finding a job and what damn national paper he should write for, because fuck Jefferson if he thinks he’s won this race already.

Alex is just getting started.


End file.
